And If I Recover
by kayel29
Summary: Officer Dick Grayson is captured by a criminal group that makes it's living from torture and extortion. Half the family are forced to watch as events unfold, while the rest franticly try to track down the culprits.
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: Torture, humiliation and angst! There are also non-con elements and threats of mutilation and sexual violence - I will warn on individual chapters so if you would rather avoid those, you can.

Written for 88keysOfSadism as part of the BatFam Christmas exchange

.

Jan Bednarczyk was becoming more and more convinced this was a bad idea. It wasn't just the illegal thing, they were way past that - it was the way his cousin Mathew's friend had looked at him, like he was a bug, _less_ than a bug; a dead bug in his soup. Then there was the gun they had given him. Jan had held Mattie's gun before; that had been _so_ cool. Now, it was fucking terrifying to feel the cold weight in his pants. And his was only a taser.

He was beginning to suspect his mom's mistrust of Mattie was kind of justified.

"You ready, Jan?" Mattie asked, his voice a little high in his excitement. Something that was not reassuring, he was really into this, wasn't afraid of his freaky, well organized, snap happy friends.

Too tense to speak Jan just nodded, his face hidden under his cap. Why the hell did he think this was a good idea? Revenge was one thing, but this was going to lose his mom her second son as well as her first. The thought made him feel ill.

Mattie jimmied the window open, and Jan distantly noted that it was a bit too easy for all those locks. As he followed over the sill he couldn't help noticing the faint scrapes on the frame. Almost like it had been forced open before.

Inside the apartment was dark, and Mattie tripped over a pile of something on the floor, biting off a cuss. They both stopped and listened. The TV was on, but there was no other sound. As his eyes adjusted, Jan picked his way across piles of discarded clothes and sheets of paper stacked haphazardly all over the floor - for a cop, this guy was one hell of a slob.

They crept down the hall, as quiet as two jittery young men could be. The ten feet to the living room felt like a hundred miles. The room was dark except for the TV, and a figure was slumped on the couch, snoring gently.

"See?" Mattie smirked at him. "Out for the count, as promised."

Jan was relieved that the cop was already unconscious, as they had been told he would be, but there was still something off about the scene.

His teachers said he was a smart kid, very observant – so he narrowed his eyes and _observed_. The cop was there, the remains of drugged food still on the table in front of him. A few empty beer cans around his feet – he was wearing heavy-duty boots that had mud clinging to them, some of it was on the table where he had clearly put his feet at some point. And next to the mud, there was a cigarette stubbed out on the table. Who did that? If you were a smoker, you would have an ashtray, and if it was a one off deal, you would use the plate or a beer bottle, surely? The guy was messy, but there were no obvious signs of destruction.

"Mattie?"

"Mat," Mattie said, in irritation.

"This isn't right,"

"Not the time to change your mind, _kiddo_."

"I'm not a kid! I'm just saying something about this set up is wrong!"

"I know what I'm doing!" Mattie said. And his word was final.

.

Jan had been right though. Mattie's friend, Anderson, had been livid when presented with their prisoner. It was the wrong guy.

Anderson had snapped some photos of the unconscious man, then given them a tongue lashing and some syringes of a drug to subdue their target. He followed that up with a look that said, _do it right or you're on the chopping block instead of him._

So here they were again, breaking into the same apartment for the second time that evening. Except this time there would be no drugs to knock the guy out fist. Jan was only shitting himself _slightly_ at that part.

They hid in the bedroom, figuring the guy would probably head in there first to change. The wait was excruciating and his breath sounded as loud as a freight train to his own ears.

Finally the door opened. The cop came into the apartment and then stopped, his body still. Somehow he knew something was off. It was creepy and Jan's heart started to race. The cop sniffed the air, and Jan realized he could probably smell the last of the lingering cigarette smoke. Instead of drawing his gun, like cops did in the movies, he slid forward on silent feet and stuck his head into the living room. Then he seemed to catch sight of the cigarette butts and beer cans and his face took on an irritated expression. He briefly examined one of the stubs and then tossed it back onto the table

"Jason?" he yelled, looking pissed off. "You still here, you ass?" He glanced around as if expecting the guy to spring out at him. Jan wondered what their relationship was; he certainly didn't seem too pleased at the intrusion.

"If you're planning some payback over the McGowen thing, then screw you! That was my case!" He listened for an answer and then cast a final suspicious eye around the room. "And if you're still here," he growled quietly, "then I'm going to beat your ass into the floor. Break in, eat my food, steal my beer then whine I screw up you operations. Bastard. And you damn well better not have pissed in my dress shoes again or no mercy!"

He moved to the bathroom cautiously, apparently still expecting 'Jason' to leap out of the darkened rooms. Then, shrugging, he set about clearing up the mess.

Mattie shifted beside Jan in impatience. He was going to go for it, and that was a really bad idea. Jan shook his head franticly trying to stop the inevitable, but Mattie drew his gun and sprang into action. He bolted down the hall towards the cop who was just heading to the kitchen with the half eaten plate of food and discarded takeout boxes.

One moment the cop was standing there blinking in surprise and the next he was across the table with an arm round Mattie's neck. His gun fell uselessly to the floor as Mattie scrabbled in the cops grip while he tried to keep his footing and avoid being choked.

Jan panicked, but it was a strangely practical panic, almost like he was operating outside of himself. He leapt into the room, brandishing his taser in what he hoped was a threatening manner.

"Stop!" he yelled, "you'll regret it if you do that!"

"Seems like your buddy here is the one doing the regretting." The cop nodded towards Mattie, who he had in a tight hold that looked very uncomfortable. "Why don't you put your gun down?" he sounded remarkably reasonable for someone being attacked in his own home.

Jan held up the taser, pointing it towards the ceiling. He was taking a huge, _huge_ risk, counting on the possibility there was some level of care between this guy and the one they had taken to Anderson earlier. "Check his phone," he said, nodding towards Mattie. "If we don't call in, your friend is dead."

The cop blinked at him for a moment then slowly reached into Mattie's pocket –effortlessly resisting his attempts to break free from the lighter hold. Whilst he was examining the pictures, Jan slid his own phone out his pocket and flipped it on

"Our friend is on the other line right now," he said, and he wished he didn't feel so sick, because this would probably be really cool if he wasn't one hairs breadth from up-chucking all over his target. He swallowed it down, forced the words out calmly. "And if you don't let go of my cousin and do what we say, your friend will get a bullet in the head."

Slowly the cop released Mattie, who looked very relieved, relieved and angry.

"Get him!" He snarled, and Jan shot the cop right in the chest with his taser. He was honestly shocked he didn't miss. The cop went down and Mattie pulled one of the syringes out of his pocket and shoved the needle into the cop's shoulder.

"Sleep tight, pig," he said, seemingly pleased.

Jan felt a little sick.


	2. Chapter 2

Commissioner Jim Gordon liked his job most days, loved it on others. But there were some times when it was deeply unpleasant. Especially when it crossed the line into personal. And anything involving Bruce Wayne and his odd family of misfits was _always_ personal.

He really hated to be the bringer of bad news to his friends, but he would rather it be him than a stranger – for all sorts of reasons. So he straightened his shoulders and braced himself for the coming storm.

Alfred Pennyworth opened the door, and by the subtle shift in expression, it was obvious he knew the news was bad. Jim and his entourage of hostage negotiators, Techs, FBI guys and cops were ushered into the house and stood awkwardly while Pennyworth fetched his master.

It didn't take long, and the Bruce that stalked into the room was not the affable, slightly ditsy Bruce Wayne most of the police officers accompanying Jim knew- this Bruce was sharp, focused and fiercely intense. He stopped less than a foot away, radiating a controlled tension that made the hair of Jim's arms stand up. The rookie FBI agent standing beside him took a step back, but Jim didn't.

"Who?" Bruce said, blunt and tense.

"Dick."

"What happened?"

Jim held up a hand in a vaguely placating gesture, "He's alive. He was taken from his apartment an hour or so ago."

"And you know this how?"

"His kidnappers contacted us directly, and asked us to contact you."

"Not normal behavior for kidnappers."

Jim motioned for Bruce to sit, unsurprisingly he didn't. "It's going to be a long night, Bruce."

"Who took him?"

"They identified themselves as The Shroud. They've been on the news here and there, mostly on the west coast. But they began here on the east. In Bludhaven, most likely."

"I've heard of them," Bruce's voice was grim.

Jim cleared his throat. "They cross state lines, which has made tracking them difficult," he paused and cast a quick eye around the room. Only the rookie - Emily Brent, and Agent Moore were within earshot – and Moore already knew what he had to say. "There was also some foot dragging when it came to get the investigation started– possibly because the first victims were high risk and 'unmissed'."

"Someone missed them," Bruce growled.

"Many someones, I suspect. Dick felt the real reason the investigation took so long to get off the ground was more to do with the people running the show."

Bruce turned his piercing gaze on the two FBI agents and then pulled Jim aside. Moore looked like he was about to object, but even his arrogance wilted a little under Wayne's stare.

"You think there is some police or government involvement? Or that someone is paying to keep the cops off their backs?"

Jim nodded. "I gather that Dick believed that. He was told to stop investigating, but I know through Barbara that he was continuing to look into it on his own."

"And you think that was why he was targeted?"

"In part," Jim paused, unsure of how to continue with any kind of tact. "But it also seems to be partly aimed at you and your fortune."

"They want a ransom? I thought they were more interested in making money off these so called torture auctions?"

"They are, but this isn't the first time they have earned a bit on the side by kidnapping children of the rich and famous."

"And that would be why the FBI bothered to get involved, I take it?"

"Indeed." Jim was glad he and Bruce were on the same page when it came to their frustrations with the agency. "In the previous case– something that was not made public -the victim was the daughter of a wealthy oil baron. He was instructed by her captors to watch the auction and match all the bids. The auction itself took place the same way as the rest - people bid on the various things inflicted on the victim – previously the highest bidder got the kill, but they seem to have it rigged –the girl's father had to top the final bid to insure her release."

"And did they? Did the girl live?"

"What was left of her. Physically she might recover, eventually. But that sort of intense torture leaves strains on both the body and the mind."

"Offer them double what they got for the girl, triple if necessary. Mr. Fox can free up the necessary funds."

"I'm sorry Bruce, but making money seems to be only part of what they get from this. It is not just an attack on Dick, it's an attack on _you_. The man running this show wants you to watch, he wants to watch you suffer, as you watch your son suffer in turn."

Bruce grunted. He probably wasn't surprised. "And if I refuse? If I send you all packing and hire someone to rescue him myself?"

"Then you are taking a huge risk that they won't just kill him outright. Take away their power and they might just punish you for it. If you want my advice, Bruce? I would perhaps make some calls, 'hire' your outside help, and then work with us, do as they say and try to insure his release if your… private detectives don't find him in time."

Plausible deniability was a pain sometimes, but it did mean that he and Bruce had a something of a coded language for discussions like these.

Agent Moore chose that moment to muscle in to the conversation. "If I may say, Mr. Wayne, The FBI has a damn sight better chance at finding these freaks than some trumped up PI. In this case I would suggest you forget the outside help, let us do our jobs and use the next fifteen minutes calling your finance guys to free up the cash. Your son has to be worth more than money, surely."

Bruce's, attention shifted onto Moore, something that made the man's eyes narrow and his ears redden. He was obviously not prepared to be hit by the full force of Bruce's real, crisis driven personality.

"Quite so, agent Poor," Bruce said after an excruciatingly long unblinking stare.

"Agent Moore," Moore corrected, somewhere between flustered and indignant.

"Indeed." Bruce broke eye contact for a moment, his gaze shifting towards the right. Jim turned, and saw Bruce's adopted daughter standing by the bookcase, as still and silent as a statue. He hadn't even registered she had been in the room, and he wasn't the only one - he saw agent Brent jump as she suddenly noticed her too. There was a moment of what seemed to be silent communication between Bruce and the girl, before she moved gracefully towards the door, nodding politely to the police as she slipped out.

Jim had a real soft spot for that young woman and her friendship with his daughter, but the quiet, purposeful stealth in the way she moved sometimes made his hair stand up – just the way Bruce often did. Clearly a perfect addition to the family.

"Where were we?" Bruce said. All business now. "We should set up in here, get your systems up and running. I will make those calls, and get Lucius to organize some funds. And I'm sending the kids to stay elsewhere tonight, they don't need to see this."

"You heard the man," Jim said to the room at large. "Let's get moving."


	3. Chapter 3

Anderson kicked the cop in the ribs a few times, but he didn't stir. "Wakey, wakey, Grayson," he said, landing a savage kick to the guy's thigh. He still didn't move; Jan hoped he wasn't dead.

"Strip him down," Anderson ordered, and it took a moment for Jan to realize he was talking to him and Mattie. He had never stripped a person before and it was surprisingly difficult.

Under his bulky jacket the cop didn't look half as large as he had with Mattie in a headlock and Jan was slightly embarrassed at how shit scared he had been in the apartment. They peeled off his shoes and socks, and took off his shirt– the guy had some serious scars, more than you would expect from a couple of years on the force.

"Must have been in an accident," Mattie decided after they had spent a moment contemplating the guy's beat-up torso.

"Yeah," Jan agreed doubtfully. Some of the scars looked like bullet wounds, but he supposed that was par for the course for cops. Probably.

Anderson had his camera again and he spread Grayson out on the floor like some sort of artwork before snapping off some pictures. More than Jan thought was necessary, really.

"Right, Keegan, Stukas, you set up for filming. Let's send these pretty portraits off to Wayne and get this show on the road. Mat and what's-your-face, put Grayson in with the other one for now – make sure you bind him, he's some sort of wanna-be martial arts expert or something."

They tied Grayson's arms and pulled him to the pen where the other guy was being held. The big guy still scared him a bit, even beat to hell with one arm clearly broken, the expression on his face promised murder. Mattie pointed his gun at the guy while Jan dragged Grayson inside and slammed the cage door shut. The big guy didn't say anything, didn't even move, he just followed them with his eyes.

Mat drew him off to the side, full of jittery excitement. "They're going to hook up the connection to Wayne. I want to see his smug rich face when we show him the pictures. You stay here and watch these two, ok, Jan?"

"Don't leave me alone!" Jan whispered urgently.

"Don't be such a baby, you're sixteen, that's plenty old enough to deal with this, or you going to run home to mommy?"

If it was an option, Jan thought he might just do that, but it wasn't. Instead he took the gun his cousin gave him. A real one this time, heavy and cold in his hand. He was man enough to admit he was scared, hell, he was _bricking_ it. So he stayed in the shadows and prayed the two men in the cage would behave and he didn't have to shoot anyone.

The big guy shifted, wincing. One arm hung limp and slightly bent at an angle that made Jan's stomach roll. Anderson had really worked him over. But injuries non-withstanding the guy shuffled a little closer to his friend.

"Hey Dick-face," he grunted at his unconscious companion. "Wake up, asshole!" He reached out his uninjured arm and poked Grayson in the back of his head.

"Wasat?"

"Wake the hell up!" The guy said. "Friends of yours?"

Grayson rolled over. He looked a bit muzzy, but was recovering much quicker than expected.

"Wa' the hell is going on?"

"You tell me! I came over to give you the beating you deserve for the McGowen thing, but you took for fucking ever to get home so I made myself something to eat. And the next thing I know I wake up with some psycho wailing on me with a tire iron. What is it that makes people want to beat me half to death with metal things? A little variety wouldn't go amiss."

"Must be your winning personality," Grayson grunted and rolled his eyes, then looked like he regretted it. "You broke into my apartment, I warned you not to do that again, Jason – call me and we can hang out, or fight or whatever."

Jason snorted

"I don't like it when you take my stuff, eat my food or piss on my clothes– it's really not that funny." Grayson continued.

Jason was grinning, an expression made creepy by the blood smeared across his lips and chin. Jan couldn't help feeling they should be acting more worried about the current situation and not why Jason had broken in to his friend's house.

"You knew I would come after you for that shit – I figured that's why you did it," Jason was saying, "you had to know I wouldn't stand for it, shit, two weeks of planning and you strolled in and fucked my whole operation, you bastard." He grunted in apparent pain. "Then I got my arm broke and my legs cracked to hell. When I can move without agonizing pain I'm going to kill you, slowly."

"Like to see you try," Grayson muttered and Jan was shocked to see he was out of his bindings.

Quickly Jan grabbed his gun and stepped into the light. "Don't even think about it!" he yelled. He hoped it was loud enough for Mattie and Anderson to hear. "You move and I shoot you, no matter how quick you are you won't be able to get out the pen before I get one or both of you."

"Awesome, a 9th grader with a gun," Jason said - he sounded mildly irritated.

"How old _are_ you kid?" Grayson asked, squinting at him. "You barely look old enough to drive."

Jan bristled, "I'm old enough to shoot you in the face if you don't shut up!"

Jason sniggered, then winced when Grayson elbowed him in the ribs.

"Look, kid," Grayson smiled up at him. "Why are doing this? You can get into a lot of trouble – I can help you if you let us go."

"You're part of the problem, pig."

"Oh, looks like your illustrious career in the police force is coming back to bite you on the ass."

"Not helping, Jay."

"It's the fact it bit me on the ass too, that's really pissing me off," Jason grumbled.

Grayson ignored him and looked at Jan with a frighteningly earnest expression. "I'm not kidding, whatever is going on here is serious – do you know how much time you'll do for helping to kidnap a cop?"

"Only if we get caught," Jan said, with more confidence than he felt. He got the impression Grayson saw right through him.

"You will. And even if by some chance you don't? Do you think these people will let you live if they doubt for one moment that you aren't with them one hundred percent? I can tell you're not sure, I can see you have some doubts."

He didn't say sacred, and Jan appreciated that, even as it pissed him off.

"Whatever money they've offered you isn't worth you spending your life in jail – or losing it completely!"

"It's not about money! Or at least not only that."

"Even more reason to help us, then we can help you. I have a lot of contacts, I can make sure you're protected, I can help you figure things out."

God, he was actually pretty convincing and Jan had to dig up images of his brother's face last time he saw him, bruised and betrayed. "Yeah, right. Like the cops did for my brother? He's in jail for shit he didn't even do!"

Grayson shuffled forward still giving him the big, honest eyes. "Is that why you're looking for quick cash? To help him? That's really admirable, but there are better ways to deal with it. I know the cops here aren't all honest-"

Jason snorted and Grayson gave him another elbow to the ribs.

"- They might not be honest, but I am. And if your brother is in trouble, I'll help him."

"I don't believe you." But he wanted to, he really, really did.

But he just couldn't.

Anderson came striding into the room, followed by three other men. "Looks like sleeping beauty is awake!" he said.

Grayson gave him a long look and then rolled his eyes heavenward. "I do not believe this," he muttered.

"You had me thrown off the force, you little rich boy upstart!"

"Because you were a rapist and a thief! Not exactly a fine police candidate!"

"It was a sweet deal before you blew the whistle. You know what we do to snitches?"

"Abduct them and their moron friends and lock them in a cage?" Grayson asked.

"Hey!" Jason said.

"You haven't changed much, Grayson, still got a smart mouth on you. Tonight, we're going to be making some movies – and you, my boy are going to be the star. You'll like that, being center of attention. And we're going to use your boyfriend here to keep you cooperating nicely."

"Hey!" Jason said again, "I am way out of his league!"

Everyone ignored him. One of the guys Jan didn't recognize stepped forward, his gun drawn. "Any funny business and I shoot lover-boy through the head," he said. He had an almost hopeful look on his face and Jan suspected Jason had been the cause of his black eye and split lip. Anderson chucked Grayson some cuffs, and the cop closed them around his wrists before carefully being let out. He stood calmly and Jan couldn't help be a little impressed by him. If their positions had been reversed he would have been shitting bricks.

"Bring the other one too. Grayson, behave or else."

Grayson nodded, a resigned twist to his mouth. The angry guy ducked into the pen and hauled Jason out none too gently. He was having trouble getting his legs under him and Jan noticed that Grayson was looking a little concerned as Jason staggered and fell, cussing and muttering angrily.

"Drag him if he can't walk," Anderson said. "Shall we, Grayson?"

With a last look at his friend, who was still grumbling and trying to rise, Grayson turned and followed Anderson out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Of all the times to be benched, this was the worst. Stephanie Brown glared sullenly at her bandaged ankle. She would much rather be out on the streets than stuck in the cave watching hours of surveillance. But she had to do something to help.

Tim was busy setting up the live feed – something she was dreading, and judging by Tim's tight-lipped expression he was not looking forward to it either.

They had both skimmed the information they had on The Shroud – the results of their auctions were not pretty and seeing one of their own go through that stuff was going to be brutal. With that in mind, with not a single word spoken between them, they had agreed that Damian should be in the field and away from the horrors on the vid screen. Cassandra had been the most logical choice to accompany him and keep him distracted, while they investigated the details of Dick's abduction.

She turned back to the screen – the endless boring feed of Dick's empty apartment was briefly broken by the image of him staggering into the hallway in a pair of very short shorts and stumbling towards the coffee machine. She watched as Dick scratched absently at his bare abs and blinked at the dripping coffee. He looked rumpled and adorable, and it made her chest tight with worry.

The main com pinged and she paused the feed to look up at the third screen where Damian's irritated face appeared, illuminated by the tiny camera in Cass's mask. He had an angry set to his jaw, but Steph thought he looked worried. The same worry that was sitting in her gut like a cold, slick stone.

"We have arrived, "Cass said, and the scene shifted away from Damian as she looked across the street to Dick's apartment. There were still cops crawling all over the place, which made things more difficult.

"Hang tight double B, once I've finished this last 24 hours of footage I will probably have a better idea of where you need to be looking for clues."

"What kind of name is 'double B'?" Damian snapped from off screen.

"Black Bat is BB, I thought it sounded cute."

"You are as dumb as Grayson!" Damian was working himself up into a mini indignant rage – which was far better than seeing him anxious.

Steph pursed her lips as she fast forwarded the footage of the apartment towards lunch time.

"Well, you love and adore _Grayson_, so I must be doing something right," she said.

"I do not! I tolerate him because father likes him for some reason."

"Uh huh," she went back to normal speed when the surveillance showed Dick returning to the apartment for lunch, another cop in tow, holding half a dozen takeout bags. Judging by the days leading up to the abduction it seemed to be common practice for him to come home between shifts, for food or for naps. This was the first time someone had come back with him though.

Dick shuffled through to the living room, chucking books and dirty pants off the sofa and making room for his friend, and then he scurried to the kitchen for bowls and chopsticks. They had an epic feast – more food than even Dick could eat, but he looked like he was going to give it a good go. He and his cop buddy – partner maybe - chatted happily for a while, big smiles and wide gestures as they ate. The other guy was young and cute, with slicked back brown hair and a wide grin. Steph carefully selected a picture of his face and another of his badge number.

Defeated by the sheer amount of food, they had a quick discussion – presumably about who got the leftover's and Dick shrugged and started putting the lids back on the tubs.

Then partner-guy spilt his coke on Dick's pants. It looked deliberate and alarms started going off in Steph's head. Sure enough, as soon as Dick was out of the room, his cop buddy pulled a pouch of something out of his pocket and began sprinkling it onto the remaining food. Then he got up and packed it away in the fridge. Dick came back and they chatted some more, laughing and gossiping she assumed. She grit her teeth. That guy was going down.

"Double B?"

"Stop saying that, Brown!"

"Tut, tut, little D, no names in the field."

"You have something?" Cass was always the voice of reason, well most of the time. Sometimes.

"Yeah I got something. The leftover takeout in the fridge was drugged. By some other cop – his partner maybe. Going to look him up now. Take a sample if you can."

"Let me know what else you find and I shall bring back your sample." Cass said. Heaven knew how she was going to sneak into an apartment full of cops and steal some old takeout, but Steph had absolute faith that she would find a way.

Steph pushed back from her unit and leaned over so she could see Tim, who was franticly typing into the main computer. He had set up the live feed – but all it was currently showing was a photo of Dick stripped to the waist and lying apparently unconscious on a dark mat of some sort.

"Tim, I got a suspect."

Tim blinked at her, brain still apparently engaged in whatever he was doing with the computer. "Right, send it to Oracle. I'm still trying to trace this signal. Another pair of hands or three wouldn't go amiss when this goes live. Any word from Jason?"

"Nope, not a peep. He may pretend to be a complete butt-head, but I would expect him to have at least touched base over something like this. I hope he's ok."

"He _is_ a butt head, no pretending about it. But yeah, it's odd that he hasn't responded, even to be an ass about it."

Steph grunted, she would worry about missing morons after the current crisis was over. She sent the images off to Babs – she was probably tearing through all this information anyway but she was knee deep in a big mess with her team, so any help was probably welcome.

She fast forwarded again, stopped when she saw the back window being jimmied. Jason's large familiar figure slipped into the room and carefully disabled the alarms. He then sauntered though the apartment towards the kitchen. Steph could already see where this was going – nowhere good.

"Er, Tim?" I think I've discovered why Jason's been out of the picture."

"Why?" Tim sounded more resigned than curious.

"It looks like he broke into Dick's apartment and helped himself to the drugged food."

On the screen, Jason was happily dumping left over Chinese food on to his plate. Of all the badly timed break-ins.

"Seriously? God damn it. You think they have him?" Tim asked.

"Let me skip forward a bit and I can tell you – but I'm going to guess they do. He ate the food, not Dick and yet Dick got himself kidnapped? Could you kidnap Dick Grayson without some kind of leverage?"

"You think they used Jason to keep him in line?" Tim made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "Sounds all too plausible."

"Yeah," Steph sighed.

Tim came to stand beside her, his body was tense and she could smell the sweaty sent of fear beneath his expensive fancy-pants cologne.

They watched Jason smoke a cigarette, drink a beer and then fall asleep only half way through the mountain of chow mein on his plate.

Then the window was jimmied for a second time and two men entered the flat.

"What is this? Amateur hour?" Tim muttered as they watched the kids fall all over themselves trying to get Jason's not inconsiderable bulk back out the window and onto the fire escape.

"Maybe so – but they still managed it."

"If that idiot survives this, I am never going to let him forget it. Never."

"Let's try and ensure that he makes it long enough to endure your mockery. Although, I suggest you attempt your teasing from a distance, I suspect he will just punch you in the face if you try it close enough for him to reach you."

"Yeah, they come back to us, and I might even welcome a bit of punching."


	5. Chapter 5

This was not how Jason had been planning to spend his Saturday night. He had intended to provoke Dick in to a fight, piss him off, get a level of revenge for the annihilation of all his hard work over the McGowan thing.

This wasn't the kind of payback he had been after, and watching these assholes string Dick up from the ceiling, like some sort of pretty boy cat toy for sick fucks on the internet to play with, was pretty awful. It was actually frightening. He could have taken it - if it was him, he would be full of sass and rage, but watching someone he knew, someone he cared for on a weird twisted level, be shown off like a piece of meat ready for the eating – it was fucking terrifying. He felt so helpless.

He wasn't sure at what point he had realized they didn't have any control here, he had felt angry when they had beat him, angry but not afraid. When Dick had been brought in, he had been even more pissed off. But now his heart was pounding and he couldn't even force out his usual bravado. He was _frightened_. He had seen what these people did to their victims and now he was going to have to watch it first-hand. He couldn't _do_ anything.

Dick seemed to have no such issue with bluster, and really they were both very alike in some ways – when outnumbered and out of other options, snark was the weapon of choice.

"Did ya have to take my shoes?" Dick called out to the huddled group of men who were tinkering with a computer by the cameras. "It's cold in this tub!"

It was only then that Jason really registered that the slight tilting he could feel wasn't just a concussion – they were on water. Not moving anywhere, just rocking gently.

He looked over at Dick, hanging from the ceiling, his hands were tightly cuffed above his head and his toes only just touched the floor but he flexed his muscles a few times, shaking his hair out of his eyes. He looked like he was playing out a badly acted porn movie, the moron.

"I know why you took my shirt," he flexed again and this time he caught the chain above him and used his impressive upper body strength to lift himself up towards his cuffs, "cos I'm hot stuff," he muttered, looking intently at the lock binding his hands.

"Get the fuck down, Grayson!" Anderson called. He stormed over to where Dick was still suspended and flicked out a telescopic baton. He smacked Dick in the legs and back and Dick uncurled from his awkward but impressive position and kicked at him, sending the baton flying and catching Anderson a glancing blow to the face.

"Fucker!" Anderson shouted, but he didn't hit him again, even when he reclaimed his weapon. That was bad. Unreasonable anger was difficult to weather, but easy to manipulate. He was furious, but had the self-control to hold back long enough so the punishment would make him a profit.

"You're making a mistake" Dick taunted him, but Jason could see his eyes were flicking to the other men in the room – if you couldn't get the main guy, convince the muscle you had the better deal. A good tactic in this situation.

"Oh yeah?" Anderson said. "We going to get arrested? Cops here aren't worth shit – and I should know."

Jason eyed his own guard – he was still looking at Jason out of his swollen, reddened eye and grinding his teeth. Jason grinned at him, his expression sharp. He decided to join the conversation

"Yeah but Grayson isn't just some guy of the street, he isn't even just some rich kid. He has connections." he said.

"Connections? Like who, the Haven police don't give a fuck, Gotham don't either."

"Yeah, but his old man is Bruce Wayne."

"And what's daddy going to do about it? Other than pay out the nose? Anderson sneered.

"His daddy, numbnuts, is Gotham's darling, one of the richest men in the city."

"I noticed, that was kind of the point."

"What I'm trying to subtly point out is that Bruce Wayne funds a lot of things in Gotham city."

"Like rock stars and orphanages," one of the goons said.

Jason ignored him, focusing on Anderson "-Including the Batman," he continued. "It's the Batman that's gonna be coming after you, not the cops."

"I'm trembling in my boots."

"You should be. There are some things, some families you just don't fuck with in this city. The Bat will be coming for the lot of you." He directed that at the other guys. Anderson was too far gone, this was personal for him.

"I'll tell you what," Dick cut in, "he's right when he says Bruce will pay – but wouldn't it be nice to have the money for more than a few days? That's all it will take until the Bat gets you. Lots of capes in Gotham, if it's not him, it will be one of the others. You better hope it is him and not the Red Hood. That guy doesn't take prisoners."

And you better believe the Red Hood was going to get these fuckers – he was memorizing every goddamn face in the room and none of them were getting away with this shit, even if Dick did manage to sweet talk his way out of this mess.

Dick wasn't done. "You set me free – we'll say it was a rescue. I will insure you get a reward, double if you let that lunk head go too." He cut his eyes at Jason, who somehow resisted the urge to stick out his tongue.

"Nice try, Grayson, but I've got dirt on these guys and it's not just the Bat they would have to watch out for. You're not the only ones with friends in high places, Anderson said.

The goons were glancing at each other, assessing. Dick's words had rattled some, enticed others. But they weren't Gotham natives and the shadow of the Bat wasn't real to them - the stick and the carrot in Anderson's arsenal were much more potent than Dick's vague promises and the threat of a mythical guy dressed like a flying rodent.

Satisfied that his men were stilling his court, Anderson stalked towards Jason's cage. He turned to look at Dick, and then gazed assessing at Jason. "Here's the deal; If Wayne pays up at the end, I will let Grayson live – a little damaged, but still breathing. Grayson behaves, and I will let you both go. Clear?" he asked, looking at first one, then the other of them.

"Crystal," Dick said.

Jason opened his month but Anderson held up a finger before he could speak. "And you," he leaned close to Jason's cage "you don't talk at all. We wanted heckling, we would have gone to a sub-par comedy night. You talk and the first thing I will do is burn your friend here, and if you continue to make noise throughout our performance I will have Keegan shoot out your knee cap. We will keep shooting off bits of you until we come to your dick, and when we're done with that I will personally blow your fucking head off. Understand?"

"Yup," Jason said – what else could he do?

"Right, let's get this show on the road." Anderson pulled on a mask that covered his whole head and tugged on some latex gloves. Safety first apparently.

"Yay," Dick said, sounding more resigned than frightened.

The chain attached to Dick's wrists was hauled up a little further so he was dangling completely off the floor.

"Let's get you ready for your close up," Anderson said, making a show of undoing Dick's belt and sliding his slacks over his hips. He stepped back and let Dick's pants drop to the floor, leaving him in his boxers… his _superman_ boxers.

"_Seriously_?" Anderson said - he looked slightly scandalized.

Jason snorted out a laugh, no rules against that. And only Dick would get kidnapped and tortured while wearing novelty underpants. Superman underpants at that.

"Um," Dick said, and if he hadn't been suspended from the ceiling, Jason suspected he would be doing that 'ah shucks' shrug he did so well. As it was he didn't even have the good grace to be embarrassed.

"Roll the cameras," Anderson said, apparently giving up on Dick's lack of dignity. He and another guy – who, until he learned otherwise, Jason decided to call Fucko, started to turn Dick's hanging form one way and then another, making sure the camera got all angles. They swung him gently, and Jason could see Dick shifting slightly, adjusting to the extra strain on his muscles.

"Something special for tonight's show," Anderson said, putting on a deeper voice for the cameras, probably trying to disguise his voice a little. "Officer Richard Grayson, one of Bludhaven's finest – and in this case that isn't even an oxymoron. He is also the adopted son of Billionaire Bruce Wayne. Although some say their relationship is intimate on a _very_ different level."

Jason saw Dick roll his eyes in exasperation at the comment – whenever Bruce fell out of favor with the press, they began speculating on his habit of collecting black haired orphaned boys. They conveniently forgot Cassandra's place in the family and instead liked to publish pictures of a teenaged Dick and Bruce looking dapper together. And Jason had to admit, they did make a fine picture.

As he watched, flashing notifications started popping up on the screen. Sicko's posting bids and offers. There was a lot of interest – both for Dick's celebrity status, and for the fact he was a cop. They showed the camera his police badge and ID and the flurry of notifications increased.

Jason looked at the bastards in the room, twelve in total – some really into proceedings, some obviously just muscle. And then there was the teenager in the corner. He was obviously here with the older guy – maybe Jason's age, who frankly looked like he was enjoying himself way too much. The kid though, his black hair was plastered to his forehead with anxious sweat – whatever he had been expecting this wasn't it– there was no way that boy was prepared for what was coming, he was going to be a soft target – and maybe he wouldn't have to go down with these freaks either.


	6. Chapter 6

"And allow me to make a _special_ welcome to my guest of honor, Bruce Wayne!" The masked man on the screen said.

Jim saw Dick flinch ever so slightly as he hung still and calm from the ceiling. It must be really awful to know that your loved ones were going to be watching – some might draw comfort from not being alone, but he doubted Dick was one of those. Causing Bruce pain hurt him, and having Bruce witness his humiliation and degradation at the hands of these perverts was going to be crushing.

As they watched the masked man posture and taunt, Bruce's face was lacking outward emotion. To most people he must look like a cold-fish, but to Jim he looked like a man watching his worst nightmare. If Bruce were not in a state of emotional turmoil, he would be acting more like his public persona than the smart, intense man that was viewing the feed now.

The first bid came in – it flashed up on their screen: **hurt him slow, 200**

They always stated low and cheep – it kept things going longer and built up the suspense.

The next line of text appeared on screen: **Let me see some bruises 300**

Then: **legs and butt plz 500**

The masked man pushed Dick and made him spin in a lazy half circle. He didn't try to steady himself and just went with the movement - the kid looked calm, far too calm. Like he was ready for what was coming – he knew how this would play out as well as Jim did, he must be terrified, but he was hiding it well.

The guy was handed something from off camera and it took Jim a moment to register what it was – a police issue nightstick. Dick's probably. A fact that clearly tickled the bidders' fancy, and another flurry of notifications came in. The suggestions were pretty horrific.

Bruce reached out and switched off the two way audio, so The Shroud could no longer hear them. He also turned his face enough that it still looked like he was watching, but anyone watching _them_ couldn't read his lips.

"Jim?" he asked, his eyes intense and hard. "You've seen the feeds for previous auctions." It was more of a statement than a question. Bruce was all business still, with barely any noticeable inflection in his voice.

"Are the auction participants the same? Do you know what to expect?"

Jim had been dreading this question, but if it was – god forbid - one of his own kids on the block, then he would want to know. "There are a few regulars, some have particular interests, and others just seem to enjoy the pain."

"What sort of _interests_?"

"Beating, cutting, they like to see blood. Or thrashing – that tends to make more of a spectacle." Jim paused and rubbed an anxious hand over his moustache. "Then there are the ones who get off on the victims humiliation or fear. You might see things that encourage higher levels of panic, suffocation, for instance."

"How permanent are the injuries? Broken bones? Amputations?"

"Both on a few occasions. Mutilations too." Just thinking about what they might have to witness was making Jim's palms sweat.

"Sexual?"

"What?" The question took him off guard, although it shouldn't have.

"Is sexual assault a part of the MO?" Bruce was relentless, but completely calm, eyes still on the screen in front of them.

"Sometimes. With the nature of torture there is often a sexual element, whether it's genital mutilation, sexualized humiliation or out-right assault. Rape is something that people fear, the threat alone can cause long term psychological impact."

"I see."

"Can you do this, Bruce?"

Bruce just looked at him, and the expression in his eyes sent a chill up Jim's spine. "Can _you_?"

"I wish I didn't have to witness any of this, but we will do what ever we can to rescue him."

"Thank you." Bruce said. There was still no inflection to his voice, but Jim could read the fear and determination in the tension on his face. Bruce leaned forward and turned the sound back on.

On the screen, the masked man swung the baton against the back of Dick's thighs. He was wincing, but not struggling or calling out. It looked like he was trying to keep his body relaxed, but his whole frame was shuddering under the impacts.

Jim glanced at Bruce out of the corner of his eye, not sure how to phrase his question subtlety enough. "You know Dick better than I," he began awkwardly, "and he knows we're watching, has he sent any sort of sign? Any sort of…message to you to indicate where he is, or the identity of his captors?"

"Not yet."

"Does that seem odd to you?"

Bruce turned to look at him, face as impassive as ever. "He will wait for things to really start, so he can disguise any communications as cries of pain."

Jim winced. Brutal and practical, of course.

Time passed strangely, each minute felt like an hour, but there were times when Jim was astonished at how much time had actually elapsed.

The masked man had moved on to a slim cane that had long since broken skin. Blood was trickling down Dick's back, darkening the jolly blue of his ridiculous shorts. He was touching more too, running hands over Dick's hip and curing his fingers around his throat. The touches were provocative, but didn't seem to be completely sexual in nature, more a showcasing of the power he had. It certainly wasn't Dick's physique that was turning this creep on.

"Not long now," Bruce commented, watching intently as Dick sent a glance at something off camera, and then seemed to grit his teeth and force himself to relax again.

It was when the man on the screen poured something from a jar into his hands and then rubbed it into the wounds on Dick's back that the boy finally cried out and thrashed in his bonds – the instinctive desire to escape from the pain overriding his attempts to remain calm. And yet, shockingly, or not, knowing this family, Bruce was on the money as usual.

While flailing and jerking, and letting out angry pained yells - Dick mouthed words. Jim couldn't follow them at first, Dick would say something and Bruce would write it down in some sort of short hand. He was honestly confused about how Bruce was picking up on the words – until he recognized one – in French. He wasn't just speaking in English but using multiple languages that both he and Bruce knew in order to avoid detection.

Jim also realized that Bruce jotting down information in some unrecognizable code was not just to do with ease of writing, or to analyze the exact words at a later time, but to disguise the fact it was happening at all – even to the people in the room. It was no surprise that Bruce mistrusted the FBI or any law enforcement but Jim himself – that was just the kind of man he was. But he suspected it was more than that. If there was a leak, or worse, direct involvement from within the system – it was possible it came from high up. And until they knew otherwise, everyone was suspect.

On the screen the masked man drew back, leaving Dick panting and scowling.

"Now," the man said, his voice rich with excitement, "shall we move on to something a bit more daring?"

The beeps indicating the suggestions and bids grew to a frantic pitch. People were investing in this, they were loving it. Jim just hoped that meant things would progress slowly enough to mean no permanent damage was done before they found the kid.

Bruce leant close to him and spoke low, once again keeping anyone watching from reading his lips. "He says he is on a boat, on water, maybe moving. Fifteen men or less. Other hostages are present. The leader is ex police – Budhaven, badge number 1587."

Jim nodded and pushed back from the desk. There were a good few officers on the force he trusted completely; he would relay the information to them. As he punched in Montoya's number, he noticed that Bruce was sending a text – in the same strange code he had used before. It seemed Jim's officers wouldn't be the only ones acting on this new information. The thought gave him a brief surge of hope.


	7. Chapter 7

This was the worst thing that Jan had ever been witness too. He hadn't even imagined anything this horrible. Sure, he'd had revenge fantasies after his brothers unfair arrest, after seeing his beat-up face when he visited him in jail. But that had been video-game violence. He had seen himself shooting the cops who had hurt his family, smiling, cool and righteous as their heads exploded in a gleeful messy splatter.

It hadn't been real. Their pain hadn't been real.

_This_ was real.

The smell of blood was heavy in the air and they had only just gotten started.

The way Grayson had shouted and twisted around in his chains when Anderson rubbed that stuff into the long cuts on his back, _that_ was real. And the way both his own and Grayson's eyes kept slipping towards the horrible looking torture devices stacked off camera, _that_ was real too.

And the expression on the other guy – Jason's – face; anger, fear, determination and bloody murder. It was the most brutal reality he had ever experienced in his sixteen years of life. And strangely, the right-now-realness of it was also making it feel like some sort of nightmare.

But he knew it _wasn't_ one.

"Breathe, kid," someone said. Jan turned to see Jason looking at him with his cool, pale eyes.

"They see you freaking out and you're next week's star attraction," he continued quietly.

Jan shifted his gaze quickly to Jason's guard, but the man was distracted, watching as the other guys used pulleys and levers to lower Grayson to the ground without untying him. The guard looked excited. So did Mattie, he looked riveted to what was happening, like he was getting off on it. Jan couldn't deal with the implications of that right now, so he turned back to Jason.

He was sat with his back to a slim pillar, his arms bound and pulled behind him. It must have been very painful considering his broken arm, but the only sign he showed of it was the tightness in his jaw and an occasional wince when he shifted position. It was only when he was watching what was happening to Grayson that emotion bled through.

Jan seriously hoped that if he survived this, Jason never caught up with him. If they let him go, he was coming back for revenge, Jan just knew it.

"I'm ok. I'm ok." Jan said, more to himself than Jason, but the man snorted at him anyway.

"Sure you are. You look like you're having the time of your life."

"Shut up!"

"How did you even end up in this mess?"

Jan slid to the floor, keeping well out of reach of the big man. How _did_ he get into this crap? "My cousin asked me to help him out – the guy he was supposed to bring along got arrested. He said it was a chance to earn some quick cash."

"And get some payback for what the 'Haven cops did to your brother?"

"Yeah. I wanted them to pay." It sounded ridiculous now, like a fantasy that should never have seen the light of day.

Jason nodded and looked over to where his friend was being strapped to some sort of wooden plank. "I can tell you two things for sure, kid. One, that moron over there is probably the only honest cop in the whole of Bludhaven, and one of the most disgustingly decent people out there. Not that he isn't a complete asshole, mind you, because he is. And not that I won't deny I ever sung his praises, because I will." He shifted and winced slightly as he watched the men prepare for their next torture scene.

"And number two?" Jan asked after a moment.

"Yeah. Number two is that if you don't help me help him? You're not going to see tomorrow."

"Big threat from a guy who's tied up and can't walk under his own power!"

"I'm not the threat, dumbass. I'm your only goddamn chance. These people run a tight ship – if you'll excuse the pun. And you are not the young, professional, sociopathic thug they were expecting. You're a walking, talking liability and they are either going to off you and chuck your corpse into the ocean. Or more likely, they are going to put you on the bidding block, torture and mutilate you and then let some perv have his wicked way, before chucking what's left into the harbor. Either way we're looking at your dead body, face down in the water."

Jan didn't want to believe him, but at the same time he knew he was right.

"What can I _do_?" he whispered harshly. "I can't do anything to help – and you can't even walk!"

"What's your name, kid?" Jason asked, not unkindly.

"Jan," he didn't see the point in hiding it. He was probably going to die anyway. The thought made him dizzy.

"Well, Jan, you help me get free, find something I can pick these cuffs with – see if you can find a weapon – anything that will help, and I'll do my damndest to keep you alive."

Jan was momentarily frozen in indecision. Even if Jason was free and armed there was no way he would be able to get the three of them out alive – but if Jan didn't do something then at best he would have to stay and watch this to the end, and at worst, he might end up experiencing it first hand. The very idea made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Then the decision was taken away from him. There was a sudden commotion from where the guys were setting up for the next scene. It looked like someone had dropped a camera and something had smashed. Anderson was yelling.

"Jan!" Mattie called from where he was helping restrain one of Grayson's limbs. "Jan, come help clear up this mess!"

"Go," Jason said quietly, looking down so Mattie and the others couldn't see his lips moving. "See if there's anything useful in the mess. Broken glass, sharp metal. Don't get caught, better to leave it than to be seen pocketing it."

He was right, and for the first time Jan actually felt he could trust the guy – a little bit at least. He pulled himself awkwardly to his feet and headed over to the horror show.

He knelt and began scooping up the shattered glass and busted camera. He found he was almost eye level with Grayson and couldn't help giving him a wide-eyed look. Jan had no idea what they were going to do to him next but whatever it was, he was sure it was going to be awful. He knew that just from Grayson's grim expression. Then the cop tilted his lip up a little, in an almost a rueful smile, and blinked slowly.

Jan might have been losing it completely, but that blink spoke to him. It said, _its ok. I forgive you, do what you have to._

Nonsense, but it gave him the strength to present a blank face rather than panicking or crying like a baby. He tucked the small bits of glass into his pocket and stood. No one was looking at him. They were too busy using the pulleys to winch Grayson at an angle. He was laying flat to a wide board of wood, tilted with his feet higher than his head. One of the men had another hand held camera and was shooting the whole thing - the restraints, the expression on Grayson's face, the blood that was dribbling in thin rivulets from the weeping lacerations on Grayson's back.

Jan swallowed bile, he averted his eyes from Grayson's steady expression and found himself caught in Jason's stormy gaze. He nodded, very slightly when he met Jan's eyes, and Jan realized that as absurd as it was, both he and Grayson were trying to make him feel better, give him strength. It didn't make _sense_.

They put a white piece of cloth over Grayson's face, it looked like a shroud. He would deal with the irony of that later. He was suddenly terrified for the man he had brought here to die. He grabbed Mattie's arm. "Are they going to shoot him?" he asked.

"Why would they cover his face for that? Dumbass."

Confused and with his heart beating twice as fast as could possibly be normal, he made his way back over to his spot by Jason.

One of the other guys, Keegan, started carrying over watering cans. The sight was so weird and out of place Jan looked at Grayson again, incredulously. What the hell was going on? He noticed that although Grayson's body was relaxed, his jaw was tense under the cloth.

"What are they doing?" he asked. Jason seemed to know a hell of a lot more than he did about this situation.

Jason shook his head. "They're going to pour water over his face. It simulates drowning."

"Why?" Surely there were more effective methods of hurting someone?

"You ever been underwater a bit to long? Had that sudden panicky urge to breath? Fact is it doesn't matter how much of a badass you are and how ready for death you are. When your body is faced with the prospect of dying, it fights for life. Your body is flooded with adrenaline and you panic and struggle."

Jason paused, he looked rather glassy eyed for a moment, and Jan suspected in some form or another he was talking from personal experience.

Jason shook himself slightly and his eyes cleared. "The fear that such a desperate fight for life instills in you is…insidious. It invades your life and creeps though your dreams. In some ways, for someone like Dickie up there, or me, its harder to deal with than physical pain."

"Dickie?"

"I'm trying to impart deep and meaningful information on the psychological impact of torture to you, but you get stuck on his stupid name?"

"Sorry," Jan said, not sure why he felt such relief at Jason's small smirk.

"It is a dumb name, I grant you."

Jan rubbed his sweaty palms on his dark jeans. "What if he drowns? Like, for real?"

"The way they have him positioned means that water is going to flow into his mouth nose and sinuses, but it won't reach his lungs. He won't drown. But it will feel like he is."

As they watched, camera guy focused carefully as the first stream of water was poured over Grayson's face. He took a deep breath almost immediately, but his body was visibly tense, as more water cascaded onto the cloth.

After a couple of long minutes. Grayson began to struggle. Pulling against his binding and attempting to move his head to the side. Seconds later he was thrashing in earnest, and although he was still weirdly quiet, he was obviously gasping for breath and freaking out, straining and trying unsuccessfully to twist out of his bindings. It was horrible to see the loss of control – he had been so stoic and fearless, this change was terrifying.

Jason had averted his eyes and was staring fixedly at his own boots, his jaw so tense it was probability hurting. Jan could relate.

Keegan stopped the flow of water and took the cloth off Grayson's face. The guy with the camera got a close up of him as he struggled to breath, coughing up water and hanging limp in his bonds. Anderson pulled on the ropes and Grayson swung up slightly, causing the water to stream from his mouth and nose as he gagged and spluttered. He retched a few times, and the men laughed.

"Not so pretty now, huh?" Anderson said, his smirk a cruel twist on his lips. "Bet daddy dearest liked seeing you choke, do you think he would like to see you beg?"

Having regained his breath, Grayson didn't bother to answer, except to raise a contemptuous eyebrow.

Jan didn't think he could feel any worse, but the reminder that Grayson's father was watching this sent shocks of new horror through him. What if it was his family watching? His mother seeing him break down and struggle for breath?

For one long, silver-gray moment he thought he was going to faint.

"Shall we go again?" Anderson asked,breaking Jan out from his sudden fear. "If you beg, I'll go easy on you."

Grayson said nothing, didn't even acknowledge him. Anderson didn't seem surprised.

This time, he picked up the jug himself and smiled down at Grayson before putting the cloth back over his face. "Bottoms up!" he said, with a disturbing level of enthusiasm. And the water started flowing again.

Jan looked at Jason's boots too, his own jaw tight. "Tell me how I can help," he said quietly. "Anything is better than this."

Jason raised his eyes and nodded slowly. In the background they could hear Grayson start to gasp and struggle again


	8. Chapter 8

Warning This Chapter: non-consensual touching and mild sexualized violence

.

.

As the sight of a pint sized Robin did not tend to strike fear into the hearts of men, (unless they had actually _met_ him, of course) they had felt Cassandra would be the logical choice to interrogate Dick's temporary partner and piece of human garbage, Henry Ramirez. Also, as Tim so delicately pointed out, there was a lingering concern that Damian's anger and frustrated worry over Dick might lead his interrogation techniques into permanent injury territory or an unfortunate case of dead police officer.

Apart from the initial abduction of Ramirez, Cass had not needed any violence to get results. She had bound her prisoner to a chair in one of Jason's dimly lit, dilapidated bolt-holes, and then she had _loomed_ at him. Slinking around the edge of the light, like a hunting cat.

As Steph watched on the camera feed she could see Ramirez was trying hard to remain calm, but his eyes tracked Black Bat's lazy circle around him.

"I'm a cop," he tired first. "If you hurt me, you'll be up shit creak without a fucking paddle!"

Black Bat ignored him, her stride even and soft. A bead of sweat slowly slid down the side of Ramirez's face.

"I've got connections! Important people will miss me!"

Cassandra paused and she tilted her head towards him. "Important people miss Dick Grayson," she said coolly.

Ramirez flinched.

"Where is he?" she asked, almost conversationally.

Ramirez nodded his head towards the Bat emblazoned on her chest. "The Batman doesn't kill. You can't do shit to me." The fear in his eyes didn't back up his bravado.

Cassandra didn't move. "I am not the Batman."

Ramirez looked like he was going to pee his pants right there. Watching on the comms, Steph smiled – Cass was one of the kindest, sweetest most fun people she knew, but when she wanted to be? She was shit scary, no kidding around.

"Tell me, before I make you regret waking up still breathing this morning," Cass said, her body still and poised like a predator.

"I don't know where he is!" Ramirez said.

Steph felt he was telling the truth – he was just an underling of some sort. Cass clearly agreed and switched tack. "Who do you work for?" she asked. "Who are the Shroud?"

"I only did it because they made me, I have nothing against Grayson, he's a nice guy!"

Ramirez was babbling, he looked like he might cry. Steph hoped he did. On the main computer screen Dick was being _waterborded_; he was panicking and struggling. She couldn't bear to watch.

Not torture, her _ass_.

"Tell me everything," Black Bat said, in a voice like cold steel.

Ramirez did.

.

Steph patched a call though to Babs. It took a long time for her to answer, and when she did, it was obvious she was fielding another rather frantic call or three from her team; lots of yelling and some colorful swearing in a feminine voice.

Barbara herself looked stressed, dark circles under her eyes and coffee stains on the sleeve of the ugly green and purple sweater she was wearing. Steph recognized it as one Dick had given her two Christmases ago. He thought it was pretty, Steph and most other sane people thought it was a hideous eyesore and should probably be burnt as an appeasement to the angry gods of fashion.

"News?" Babs grunted, typing rapidly.

"Some. Ramirez was approached by that ex-cop, Anderson, directly. Apparently they were on the same shift a lot and were drinking buddies back in the day. Anyway he has nothing much to do with the Shroud – mostly he's just dirty. Did some naughty things and now the other corrupt cops own him. He does what they say or he goes down. Usual 'Haven politics."

"Left! I said head left!" Babs growled, still typing. "Damn fool."

It took a moment for Steph to realize she was talking to someone else, and a further few moments to shake of the guilty and slightly terrified feeling that tone gave her when Babs was actually directing it at her.

"Sorry, we're having a bit of a crisis," Babs said, almost rueful. "Bad timing."

"Yeah," Steph sighed. Wasn't it _always_ in their lives? "Got anything for me? And I'll leave you to it – although I will obviously keep you informed of any changes and stuff."

"There is defiantly a connection between this Anderson guy and some of the other agencies. FBI especially." Babs said, all business. "He communicated with someone in Gotham, who logged in from the FBI head quarters. It was from a private device, so it wouldn't hold up in court – but that's the location."

"B suspected as much, but it still sucks."

"Yeah, and I expect the person or persons involved will be knee deep in this case, mudding the waters if they can. First port of call should be the agents' upstairs with Bruce. And then perhaps their superiors."

"You got it. We're going to get him back." Steph made her voice sound confident, despite her doubt. She believed that they would get him back – these were people she trusted in completely. It was how much damage he would receive _before_ they came to his rescue that really worried her.

Babs flashed her a tired smile, "I know, I have faith in us. And him. I'm still sorting though emails and phone records, anything that gets a hit will come straight to you." Then her attention turned back to the other screen, where tinny noises of shouting and gunfire could be herd. "Damnit, I said go left!" Her fingers flew across the keys almost faster than Steph could process. "Sometimes leading these people is like herding cats. Drunk, cantankerous cats." She muttered, probably to herself.

Steph signed off with a small smile.

And speaking of cantankerous cats, there was a beep from her computer and Damian's angry little face appeared on the screen. He was glaring into his camera phone with considerable menace. Behind him was a jumble of papers and debris, like a small brightly colored tornado had blown though the room.

"I hope your going to clear that mess up," she said, raising an eyebrow. "We are supposed to be discreet with the breaking and entering thing. When the cops get around to investigating this creep the evidence needs to be solid and untouched."

"I know that!" Damian snarled. "But I have found something."

"Lets hear it then, little D."

"Anderson knows it was Grayson that had him booted off the police force. He hates him."

That made the knot of tension in Steph's belly swell impossibly large. A personal grudge in this situation was not good news.

"He has been studying his movements," Damian continued, waving a small red note pad at the camera. "By hand! Who _does_ that?"

"Focus, Robin."

"He also has some shipping lists and notes about docks. I haven't finished going though it, but it seems suspicious to me."

"Yeah, me too. Photograph it and send it to me."

Damian nodded and then looked slightly shifty, like he couldn't find the words he wanted to say, or get them out of his mouth.

Steph took pity on him. "He's holding up well, Robin. We're going to get there in time." She kept her voice free of sympathy or emotion. Damian wouldn't respond well to it, he needed to pretend he was okay. Steph was awesome at pretending to be okay, at pretending to be all sorts of things she wasn't. She could relate to the need to keep those feelings and doubts at arms length.

"I shall clear up and come back to the cave," he said, after an awkward moment or two.

"Actually, I have another task for you first." Hopefully it was keep him away from things for the next hour or so. "I need you to investigate FBI agents Brent and Moore. I'm sending you details now."

"I shall send you these documents in return."

"Thanks, Robin. Black Bat will be on hand for back up if you need it."

"I won't," Damian growled. "Robin out."

Steph sighed and pushed back from the desk, leaning back to stretch out her sore spine. She never was able to maintain good posture at the computer and the tension was making her bones ache.

Tim was still hunched over the main computer, apparently digging though the massive amount of coded data streaming across the screen. Between them was the laptop with the live feed. Her gaze was reluctantly drawn back to the screen as the masked bastard who had been waterbording Dick started to speak again.

"Looking a little out of breath, Grayson!" he laughed. Dick just looked at him, once again calm and impassive. The other masked goons soon had Dick hanging from his original position, bare toes just touching the floor and arms stretched painfully above his head.

"Lets move on to something a little more vivid, shall we?" The guy asked. "Something to titillate." He drew a large wicked looking hunting knife, turning it this way and that for the camera.

Steph must have made some sort of distressed noise, because before she could blink Tim was beside her and staring fixedly at the laptop screen. One of his hands was resting on the table the other was clenched at his side, his knuckles white.

The masked asshat was circling Dick now, the tip of his blade occasionally making fleeting touches against skin. The camera guy was following closely, making sure he got every knick and scratch, as well as lingering on Dick's face, looking for a wince or any show of fear. The masked man stopped at Dick's back and ran the knife gently down his spine. Dick twitched as it passed over the sluggishly bleeding welts from his earlier thrashing.

Steph found she was acutely aware of Tim beside her, of the way his breathing sounded; he was angry and frightened – not like when he was fighting, not like when he was in danger of dying, this was a different type of fear. The feeling of helplessness was crushing. Steph found herself torn between the comfort having a friend with her during this horrible time, and the need to be alone so she could scream and cry and rage. She suspected Tim felt the same, in his smart, practical way.

The man turned the knife around so the blade no longer pointed towards Dick's skin, and slid it past the hem of Dick's superman boxers and between his buttocks. Dick flinched slightly as the man used the bladed edge to cut the shorts off him.

Then he slid the flat of the blade over the swell of Dick's bare ass and around his hip, the camera man faithfully following the action. The bids were going crazy as the man on screen used the blade to lift up Dick's flaccid cock.

Steph felt sick. She knew it was going to go this way, it was how most of these auctions went – whether the victim was raped or not, the torture was always sexually violating in some way. It made something in her gut twist viciously.

She didn't want to look, but she was almost scared not to.

"Hmmm," the man said, still using the knife to manipulate Dick's genitals "I had heard you were a ladies man." He turned and smirked at something off camera. "Although it seems you're pretty equal opportunities."

"Jason?" Steph wondered aloud. It was clear the guy was also putting on a show for someone in the room and Jay was the logical conclusion – especially if he thought they were friends – or even lovers. The man was clearly a sexual sadist and really got off on causing emotional pain as well as physical.

If this guy was Anderson, then Steph was really, _really_ glad he was no longer on the force. Although she would be much happier if he was in a locked room with no access to people. Or dead. Steph was a Bat; she would not kill, even with this sort of provocation. But if he happened to die in a tragic accident, perhaps involving some sort of traumatic amputation of his penis, or his head, then she would not exactly morn.

"Jason," Tim agreed, obviously having come to a similar conclusion. "Although Dick is way out of his league."

The joke fell flat, but Steph gave a half hearted smile regardless, because joking in times of horrible stress was something Dick did, it was something that Tim had learned from him.

She tore her gaze from the thin line of blood running down the length of Dick's penis and looked at his face. His body was relaxed – but he also looked pissed. Bodily autonomy was important to him – and he was fiercely protective of it in others as well as himself. That was one of the ways that Steph secretly felt he and Jason were very similar. Although very, very different in some moral areas (like murder) they had the same general values and the same desire to help those who had the worst lot in society. They both helped run and police a 'Bad Trick List' for prostitutes in the 'Heaven and in Gotham, although they both pretended they had nothing to do with each other. They both spent time working with runaways and the homeless. There was a compulsive need to help people in them – in all of the family really, herself included. But for those two in particular, and for Cass too, there was something raw and driven about it.

Shit, all the worry over Dick and she had almost forgotten about Jason, about what he must be going through. And about the very real danger he was in. She was sure he was still alive, or Dick would have freed himself and beaten these punks to a pulp by now.

She hoped he was okay.

Another similarity between Jason and Dick was stubbornness and tenacity. And they were both resilient as hell. She was suddenly sure they were going to make it. Battered and maybe a little damaged – but not broken. Dick was one of those people who was emotionally fragile on one hand and full of emotional strength on the other. You knocked him down and he got right back up and into your face.

And Jason had kicked _death_ in the ass, so this was nothing. Probably.

Tim was staring at the screen as though torn between laying down and crying and forsaking his Bat-Vows and arming himself with a couple of grenades and a Kalashnikov or two and murdering the whole fucking lot of them. And if anyone could do it, it would be Tim (not that he would, but he _could_, if he wanted)

"Out of his league you say?" Steph mused, as she looked at Dick's angry face, and saw fight and strength. "Not so sure about that, Jason's pretty hot."

Tim looked at her with an expression of vague horror and she mentally high fived her self for distracting him from the horrible tableau in front of them. "And he's Dick's match in all shades of stubborn and bull-headedness."

Tim made a complicated series of grossed out expressions that made her smile. He was such a dork. But then he seemed to sober and the humor slid off his face, leaving behind something almost childish in its needy anxiety.

"Do you think we'll get him in time? Do you think he'll be alright if we do?"

"Just look at him, Tim. Does that look like a man whose going to go down easy? He's going to make it." She sounded convincing because she knew it was true. He would.

He had too.

And she knew, that _he_ knew, that if he died? While Bruce was sitting by and having to watch? It would _destroy_ him. And Dick would rather pluck out his own eyes and eat them, than do that to B.

He was going to live because he fucking had to, in order to protect the people he loved.

That was Dick Grayson's greatest strength. Arguably it was his greatest weakness too – but if you had to have a fatal flaw, it was one you could damn well own with pride.


End file.
